


Call of the Wild

by lightsaroundyourvanity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Mark of Cain, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1459438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightsaroundyourvanity/pseuds/lightsaroundyourvanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean couldn't ignore the Mark of Cain if he tried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call of the Wild

**Author's Note:**

> shamelessly inspired by the 9x18 promo. contains suggested lisa x dean; rhonda hurley x dean; castiel x dean; suzy lee (9x08) x dean; abaddon x dean.

Dean steps in the shower because he craves the sure comfort of the water's gentle hiss, the warm pound of the even pressured stream hitting his back and shoulders. Everything, out there, spirals out of control these days, and he can't stop it, can't do the right thing, no matter how hard he tries.

He tries to save Sam, and he fucks over the world, misaligns his universe until his little brother won't even look at him straight anymore. He sews together a demon to shut the doors of Hell and she breaks loose and starts building an empire.Dean hates his. He hates not knowing that what he is doing is right. He's always known he was a shitty person, but at least thought he could make the right decisions, the hard ones, the ones that saved people. Lately, it's like he can't even understand how to do that. 

Dean raises his arms to push his waterlogged hair out of his face. Hot water hits the Mark of Cain on his forearm, and it sizzles, and Dean feels the unexpected jolt of the Mark's hold and its power sing through him. It shoots to his groin and that _is_ expected: Dean has known lust, and he's known battle lust, but nothing has ever compared to the keening ecstasy he feels burning on his arm these days. It's dirty and anguished and righteous and pure all at once, and its something Dean dimly realizes he should fight, but a part of him yearns to succumb to its pull.

He wonders if this is how Sam felt when he was choking down demon blood years ago.

He _knows_ that this is how he's felt, in cold and quiet moments in Hell or in Purgatory or in his hazy, frenzied burst of time as a vampire. But the Mark is a thousand times stronger, a pulsing brand, thrumming out words to him like _destiny_ and _necessary_ and _yours._ Dean wants to sink under its spell and let it wash over him like the hot shower he stands in, and his cock twitches to attention at the promise.

Dean wraps his hand around the head of his cock before he even quite knows what he's doing. But he aches, and he aches, and the press of his hand against water-slick skin feels so good that Dean hisses, his teeth clenched, at his own touch. He swipes his thumb over the flat side of the crown, engorged red with blood, and the Mark pulses electric pleasure too.

Normally, this is about when Dean, any other version of Dean, the ones that laugh and cruise with the windows down and light up at a slice of pie, would start spinning through his spank bank, hot women and soft memories of giggles and the give of flesh. 

His thoughts skitter to Lisa, but too quickly pin themselves on that night when he was half-wild, shoving her against a wall and feeling the beat of blood in her throat, the sharp teeth crawling from his gumline. Dean's dick throbs dully at the memory, the Mark a sultry echo, but Dean feels the pit of his stomach drop, so he shoves away thoughts of Lisa. She was sacred. She doesn't deserve to be twisted into this.

Dean's rolling through a series of images now, ones that make him feel dirty and needy. Rhonda Hurley, over a decade ago, shoving a vibrating egg up his ass. Castiel, his eyes dark blue and snapping, his face close enough that Dean can feel hot breath and the ghost of stubble scraping his cheek. Suzy Lee, who he'd fucked like the fantasy she was, against a wall, against the edge of a dresser, his jeans rucked around his thighs and her legs wrapped around his hips, moaning Spanish in time with his measured thrusts. 

Dean's hand is pumping quickly over his dick now, so hard and so hot that he can feel it radiate through his palm. He _wants_ , yawning dark desire that the Mark promises it can satiate with the drench of blood and clarity. It pulls him to thoughts of Abaddon, her red curls wild, her mouth haughty, and Dean gasps at the rush of desire that punches through him, the precome that blurts from the head of his cock.

"Fu-- fu--" Dean pants. He braces one arm against the wall of the shower and leans into it. His hand flies over his dick. The Mark continues to throb.

He's close, and he can feel his orgasm crest and ebb and crest again, maddeningly out of reach. Dean squeezes the length of his cock, and he squeezes his eyes shut, and he can feel the hot prickle of tears sting along his eyelashes. 

Dean comes, and his mind is locked only on a blaze of carnage, of a desperate need to purge and slice clean. It roars through him when he comes, howling, want and guilt and want and guilt and want. The urgent call of the Mark drains and fades with his orgasm, and Dean wilts under its loss. The tears on his lashes have trickled over his cheeks, and he tastes salt. 

He stands in the shower for a few moments longer, legs trembling. Discord claws at his thoughts again, held at bay all too briefly by mindless bliss. Dean turns off the water. The metal knobs squeak.

Dean knows that he has to go back out there, to do research, to act like everything that is going on out there isn't eating him alive. Like his heart isn't breaking every time he looks at Sam, or like the Mark of Cain isn't consuming him until his muscles feel like they're always vibrating and everything seems to beg that he slap it in the face.

He's not ready. He's not sure he'll ever be ready. But he can't stay in the tiled, steamy haven of the shower forever, and even if he could, he'd only be permanently trapping himself with his own disparaging thoughts.Dean runs his fingers over the Mark one last time. He shivers, lightly.

 And then he walks out, wraps a towel around his waist and plasters on a smile. 

 


End file.
